You answer twenty times a day:

"Good. Busy. You know."

They nod. Move on. You move on to.

But no one stops you.

You sit across from her at dinner table.
She asks about your day.

You give her  headlines. Deadlines.
The things that you got fixed.

But not a word about the tightness in your chest during that call.

“Drinks Friday?”:

You type back “maybe.”

But you already know that you won't go.

You're tired.

And not the kind that sleep can fix.

you’re seen by everyone and known by none

Begin